In Remembrance of Beethoven
/In the culture of my family we began piano lessons and received our first watch on our 9th birthdays. It was so new and adult to translate time into words. Time, of course, had no meaning as one day flowed into another, and was measured by the sun and what we were allowed to eat.
My brothers and sister learnt the piano from Mrs White, who regularly shouted and rapped their hands with a ruler. In contrast, I would wander along past the river to Mrs Snodgrass’s house, I would be welcomed with fresh cakes just out of the oven and cups of tea. She read me books on Beethoven and we would listen to her records before remembering to play the piano. At which point she would warm my hands on a hot water bottle with a special knitted cover. At some stage she would suddenly become aghast at whatever time had vanished and drive me back to school, discussing beauty and music. I was always happily and innocently late for class. This was my introduction to Beethoven, anchored and safe to open my heart ears to his wild symphonies.